


Salt Husband

by ImhereImQuire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Assailant, Female Character In Command, Oral Sex, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImhereImQuire/pseuds/ImhereImQuire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrion becomes captured during a raid on Lannisport. Asha decides that marrying him will be more profitable than holding him for ransom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt Husband

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm aware that 'salt wives' are not actually married to their 'husbands' so the title is a little inaccurate, but it gets the point across.

The raid upon Lannisport had been more successful than even she had anticipated. Silks, spices, gold, jewels... all these things were cluttering her hold quite happily, but none of the riches held below were as precious as the dubious treasure that she held in her cabin.

Unfortunately the aforementioned treasure was too fucking clever by half, and refused to shut up for more than a few minutes. 

"Wench... Wench.... wench?" he called from his chains, waving at the annoying point of the periphery where all she could see was a distracting blur. She ignored him though. She would not answer to such from a twisted little monkey such as he, and eventually there came a long sigh. "Caaaptain?"

Now she turned, slowly. "Yes, dwarf?" at which point he whistled, and looked around as though he hadn't spoken. "Dwarf?" she growled. Then she realised that he was using the same bloody mindedness as she, and simply ignored him again, refusing to have this battle of wills with a bloody captive upon her own fucking ship. 

“Not kind at all, Captain. I at least have the excuse that I do not know your name… you on the other hand must know who I am, or else you wouldn’t have troubled yourself with my kidnapping” he pointed out. 

“Oh I know who you are, I’m just a little busy to be bending the knee. Running a ship. Working for a living. Not something you mainland lords know much about” she snarked, continuing to study her chart. 

“Well… can I at least have the honour of your name?” he asked, and she smirked. An honour. Time was, that there was glory to be had in the name Greyjoy. Now there was only the honour that came with being her. “Captain suits well enough, there’s only one aboard” she pointed out, and he had to concede upon this reasoning, though he did not see it as a reason to give up his quest. “It’s not terribly friendl though, is it? Captain, Lord Lannister of House Lannister, first of his name, keeper of Casterly Rock…its very formal” he drawled and she eyed him, slightly incredulous. “I didn’t call you Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock though” she reminded. “I called you ‘Dwarf’.”

“So you did. But the fact that I am a dwarf is only incidental. You did not kidnap me for my dwarfism, unless you have some strange sexual predilection as yet unvoiced. You have taken me ransom because I am Lord Lannister, of House Lannister… blah-blah, blah-blah. Which begs the question… now that you have me, what is it that you’re planning to do now?”

“Ransom you, if anyone would be glad to see you returned, which I’m beginning to doubt, having met you… and throw you over to feast in the watery halls, if there is not. “ she said, seeing no need to pretend otherwise.

Tyrion’s congenial veneer slipped for a moment and he looked first serious, then a little afraid. The fact was that there were not many people who wouldn’t prefer to see Casterly Rock transfer ownership. He had slain his father, was blamed for slaying his nephew and king, and there were not many people who did not see the current plague of dragons affecting Westeros as his doing, besides. He was not a popular man, and there were many who would be quite glad if he were lost at sea to pirates. “I can get you gold and plenty of it, but that necessitates me being in Lannisport. I’m assuming that we’re going the wrong way”

“Oh, really?” Asha asked. “I shall get my navigator in here, and you can tell him so, if you like. His nickname is ‘the mountain that sails’. Bit of a nod to that gargoyle you Lannisters used to keep. I’m sure you can guess why, smart man like you” she smirked. “We’re doing fine enough. And a raven will carry your words to the rock just as well as my ship, I’ll thank you”

“A raven may be ignored more easily than a Lord. Even a small one” Tyrion pointed out, and there was an edge of urgency to his voice. His numerous enemies could easily make the case that a letter was a forgery, that he was most likely already dead… or simply move in as jackals were so prone to do, when lions were weakened. 

Seeking to think upon something less depressing than his many and varied enemies he appraised his captor. A woman sharp as flint; commanding rather than domineering, confident and comfortable in her own skin, despite its many probable callouses and scars. The crew looked at her with the sort of loyalty that meant it would more than likely mean death if he were to try and buy them out from under her. “Watery Halls… drowned god then? Always seemed an unfortunate choice for a sailor, to me…”

She was not so easily roused as he had expected, simply shrugging. “What is dead may never die. You honour the seven then?”

“Honour is pushing it, but I suppose those are the gods I have dedicated my life to appalling.” He replied, then shrugged himself, a little defensive. “I honour the gods who made me a strapping, healthy young man of six feet… I don’t see any of those, do you?” 

Asha had little pity for him. “Same god that made of you a Lord. Gave you a name, a family, and brains, its rumoured. There’s only so much to go round. There’s many a man in your mines who’d trade you.” 

“Are you sure that I cannot have your name, Lady?” he asked, looking at her with far more interest now. 

She thought for a second. There was no real reason not to give it to him, besides bloody-mindedness. “Greyjoy” she replied. “Asha Greyjoy, of Pyke. Captain, which on a ship commands more respect than Lady…or Lord” 

“Ah” he said. He had a suspicion that it might be. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain Greyjoy”. A complete lie, given the circumstances, but sometimes niceties had to be observed. “You’re prettier than your reputation had given me to believe”

“You’re not” she said, crossing her arms and leaning her arse on her desk, regarding him with amusement. He had expected her to be flustered, or annoyed, by the continued reminders of her femininity, but she was not. “You look *exactly* what your reputation suggests” she leant down, voice dripping with sarcasm “My Lord”.

He felt his own brow furrowing. Not kind, not kind at all, he thought to himself. He knew that he looked like a monster now, but still… “And what do they say of me?” he asked, an act of masochism he knew he would regret, but could not help. People’s opinions were like holes in his teeth, once he was aware of them he could not leave them alone.

She shrugged again, the matter clearly of little consequences. “That you’re a twisted and lecherous little sprite with a face that looks as though the crows have already had their fill, at a convenient height for using as a place to rest a tankard” she said, unapologetically, and his face was stone, betraying nothing. “Shame though really, all that upstaging your pretty eyes” she added mischievously, then before he could say anything further she turned around and left, leaving him feeling more than a little perplexed.

It was evening before she returned, sweating and flushed, her palms the bright, shiny red of one who had been at work with rope, sitting on her desk, one leg crossed over the other, bent at the knee. 

“Captain. I would stand, but my legs have gone to sleep” he said, not troubling himself to move. “I was thinking we might resume discussion of my upcoming release, and the terms which might allow for it” he pressed as she sat, unlacing her boots.

“No need, Lannister. I’ve decided what’s to become of you, and no ransom will be required.” She smiled as she threw her first boot down. He looked tense then, no doubt recalling the other option had been listed. 

“Oh, don’t look so frightened. You’re not to be drowned. You’re to be wed” she said, laughing at the ridiculousness of the proposal. Her captive blinked, his brow furrowing. “To me” she added, for context.

He looked at her, his jaw slightly agape. “You mean to marry me?” he asked. This was not a prospect he had considered, and he had been giving his situation considerable thought, over the hours. This was a popular enough strategy for men… to marry their captives in order to secure their lands and titles but he was not a maid, and this seemed a ludicrous.

“You’re not really in much of a position to refuse me” she pointed out, stretching out her booted foot, nudging him with it until he took the hint and began to work upon the laces. “I’m sick of skirmishing, and taking titbits and crumbs. I want the whole fucking cake.” She declared. “Casterly Rock, Lannisport, the West. All the gold underneath it, and the ships it can buy… that’s an impressive bride price, right there”

He worked his fingers under the tight lacing, the scent of leather and salt thick in his nostrils as he leaned close enough to see what he was doing in the corner’s shadows, swallowing thickly. It was nowhere near the worst scenario he had envisaged, and yet the way she discussed it irked him.

“I am not a bride” he reminded her. Surely things were not so different on the iron isles that these things were reversed. 

“Would you like to be food for the fish?” she asked, stretching her arms above her head. “Don’t trouble yourself answering that. Its inconsequential. We’re to be wed, and I’m not taking you back to the Rock until I’m big enough with child that no one can say it wasn’t consummated fully. It can’t be so hard to drop a dwarf’s get, I’ll soon be back on my feet.” she shrugged as he worked down the tough leather, and slid it from her heel.

“Harder than you might think.. it killed my mother” he replied, tone less than light but she did not look too concerned, paying the loss of her remaining boot more attention than she did his words.

“Bah, I’m iron born. My cunt is tough enough to pass a spawn of yours, and my blood is like to be stronger of the two of ours, besides” she said, speaking as though it were a matter of personal pride. “I’ll give us an heir, and be back on my feet within the week. You spend most your time at King’s Landing, why should you care if your wife spends most of her time sailing rather than sewing?” she asked, with a shrug. “You’re killable enough, if you decide to try and play the tyrant in the marriage.”

Her sincerity was proved when she rose to her feet, unfastening the laces of her breeches and working them down from her hips, revealing nothing but dark fuzz and pale skin beneath. “No time like the present” she smirked. “Now bring your tongue over here, because we can’t rely on your looks to get me wet” she added, matter of factly.

Tyrion closed his eyes, seeking the blackness behind his lids to think. “I thought you planned to wed me first. Bastards will get you nothing” he said, with carefully maintained calm as he sought to stall her. It had been a long time since he had lain with a woman, but while it might have been fun to flirt with her this was a little too rushed, a little too… forced, and it filled him with distaste.

“Are you that much a slave to propriety? We can sort all that later” she insisted, the leather leggings naught but a ball on the floor now “Now get up” .Her foot nudged him, rather less gently than it had when she’d wanted his aid with her boot, knocking him back against the wall of the cabin. 

“Well that isn’t going to help, is it?” he muttered quietly, as full of resentment as his glaring, mismatched eyes, as he slowly rose to his feet, the move complicated by his bound wrists and collared throat. He was no Jorah Mormont, and had been in captivity before, long enough to know which commands may be safely ignored and which may not. Her gaze was iron, though she soon stepped close enough to him that it was her stomach that he faced rather than her eyes, close enough that if his nose was more than a ruin it might have poked her navel. Surely she did not mean to have him attend her like this, straining against his chains like a dog, he thought, feeling nauseous.

She said nothing, but a jingle in her hands answered his question marginally quicker than the press of her hands at his neck. The parting of the iron about his throat brought an involuntary sigh of relief from him. That much I’ll be spared then, he thought, though it seemed a paltry mercy when her hand took a handful of the ropes knotted between his wrists and yanked him sharply after her, high enough that he was forced onto his tiptoes as he hurried to avoid being swept from his feet, She was strong, and he saw no use in fighting her, though she was quick to remind him of the futility of doing so as she dragged him to the bed. “You’re at sea. There’s no one to come to your aid. If you struggle then I will have you held down, and if you were to wound me” her tone made it clear that she did not think it likely. “Then there men outside that door love me, and would take great satisfaction in killing you” she told him calmly, as she brought her knife to slit his bonds. 

“If you have the love of so many men then can’t one of them come in and do this instead? One better looking perhaps?” he asked, hating himself for the pleading edge to his voice. He had meant to sound disdainful, instead he sounded desperate. Do not let her see that this bothers you, his pride demanded, and he forced himself to look at her blankly.

“It’s not your love I’m after, Imp “Just the rock… and those pretty eyes of yours too, perhaps. I wouldn’t mind eyes like that for my sons, as long as they take after me in the rest” she reminded him as she climbed upon the bed more fully, sitting back against the headboard with her legs splayed. He’d never seen a woman look so cocky half dressed, and his experience of such things had mostly come from brothels, where modesty was not a marketable skill.

He felt his cheeks burn in defiance of his determination to appear indifferent. Tysha had said similar to him once, that she hoped their children would bear the dual colouring of his eyes, and it was the absolute worst thing that she might have reminded him of; making him feel almost grateful when the captain lent forward to grab a handful of his hair, and bring his head to her cunt.

The lord’s kiss, they called it in the north, and the irony was not lost on him. No doubt she was just doing this to prove a point, he told himself. She wishes to see me submit to her, that’s all. Its not so different from bowing my head, or bending my knee, just a token gesture, he told himself as he pursed his lips into a stiff pout, and pressed them against her short hairs a few times, thinking this gesture might be enough to mollify her. His captor was clearly less than impressed though, as she brought down her foot upon his back less than lightly, seeing the glint of steel from the corner of his eye. She had not put down her knife, he realised, his heart pounding and stomach turning. 

“I’d say that’s a kiss good for a sister and not a wife, but you’re a Lannister…” her laugh was a sharp bark, but her knife was sharper, he could feel it now against his cheek, sharp enough to pock the skin, though not to break it. Not yet, he thought, though the threat was clear. “I’ll make it less confusing for you. I’m not impressed, we’re a long way from Lannisport and I only need one part of you intact to secure this marriage. Do better” she demanded, and when his eyes rose they found her gaze utterly pitiless. 

Wordless he sunk down all the way to his belly, and lowered his head, extending his tongue to dart tentatively between her thighs, tasting salt and leather in her heated folds, and something else, the taste of a woman enjoying herself. Good looks or not, something about this excited her, he could taste it. 

“Harder” the word was accompanied by a pressure of steel, and while he could not be sure he was willing to wager the flesh had parted beneath the blade. 

Its nothing you have not done a dozen or so times before, he told himself. And at this angle, she could be anyone he wished, which made it easier to ignore his distaste. It might have been easier if she were the man she conducted herself, he thought as he flexed and bowed his tongue in short, resentful stabs. This required more action on his part than he imagined there was in the sucking of cock and her steel enforced insistence that he remain active made it hard to focus on anything else, her noises sickening in their smug satisfaction. It was half hearted at best, but after a while he realised that she intended to continue with this until she had reached her satisfaction and, seeking an end to the ache of his jaw, and to his pride he redoubled his efforts, lapping at her cunt with quicker, harder strokes which brought more genuine, breathless gasps from above him.

I don’t want this to be so good that she seeks to have me do it again, he thought to himself suddenly, feeling suffocated and trapped but when he raised his head for a gasp of air her fist tightened, clenching a handful of his hair, and he was quickly brought back to task.

She was grinding against him too insistently for him to do any more than simply freeze, allowing the stiff little bud at the top of her slit to be rubbed frantically against the meagre remains of his nose. The humiliation of that cut so quick that he wanted to cry, but soon became irrelevant. I can’t breathe, he thought desperately, pride suddenly unimportant in comparison to air. His lung burned, his hands pushing uselessly against the sheets until, after what felt an eternity she spasmed and growled. The hand upon the back of his skull went limb. At least one of us enjoyed it, he thought bitterly as he was allowed to pull back, taking in deep gasps of air which the woman seemed to find amusing.

“Not bad” she said, her tone affording him the first glimmer of respect. “Be nice if that would continue, after we’re wed, lover” she added, and the casualness of the statement shattered his desire for self preservation at last. 

“I think not. You taste like your sigil, kraken” he retorted, turning his head and spitting upon the floorboards. It was a foolishness the price for which she took out upon his cheek with a force which had his ear ringing and left him tasting the tang of copper into his mouth and suddenly thankful that Cersei had never mastered the backhand in the old days. It was not the sort of smack he could take by the bundle, but one he could bear well enough.


End file.
